


Lapis and bourbon, amen

by pleasebekidding



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Slash, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pleasebekidding/pseuds/pleasebekidding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alaric has something on his mind, but he's not talking. </p><p>“You’ve been distracted for weeks, and you’ve been refusing to talk about it for exactly as long.” Damon splutters. “So seriously? Whatever the fuck it is, can we just fight about it and move on?”</p><p>Alaric puts down his glass with a soft thunk, takes a couple of steps towards Damon, regret and exhaustion twisting his features. “Nothing to fight about, Damon. Seriously. I’m just working through some stuff. Is that allowed?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which Alaric is distracted

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always to saltzatore, for betaing!  
> Thanks also to Ark, for fangirling along the way with me.  
> Here's to the Rics who want.

Alaric is distracted, and uncharacteristically quiet; has been distracted for weeks, and it’s driving Damon mad.

Alaric doesn’t respond well to being poked and prodded and asked what’s bothering him; he tends to get grumpy and irritable, and much as Damon likes the grumpy, irritable face, the accompanying long absences bother him.

It’s been three years. Three years of ferocious sex and equally ferocious fighting, sometimes with each other and sometimes against untold evil forces. For three years they’ve spent almost every night together – fighting of any type rarely being adequate to keep them apart – drinking heavily, laughing at their mutual genius, and contorting each other into impossible positions until Damon is bouncing off the walls and Alaric collapses in a heap.

(Though they’re long past pretending it’s just sex.)

They’ve been beaten up and stabbed and Alaric has died a frightening number of times. At this stage they have no idea whether his magic eternity ring has any more power left to it than a mood ring might claim. They’ve been kidnapped and imprisoned and tortured and how they are both still alive – how they are both still alive and still together – is a bit beyond Damon, if he’s honest with himself.

But now Alaric is distracted, and quiet, and Damon wants to shake him until his ears bleed.

They are sitting at the bar at the Mystic Grill (they do this, as many nights as not), and Alaric has been sipping at the same beer for a ridiculously long time when Damon finally turns and punches him in the arm.

“Stop thinking so loud, Ric,” he grumbles. “Or else think a little louder, so I can hear you.”

This is intended to elicit a response other than “Sorry,” but that is all Alaric says.

Damon groans, irritated. “Your problem is you’re too fucking sober.”

He reaches over the bar, taking a bottle from the speed rack. The bar staff have long since been compelled not to notice when he does this, and though it usually bothers Alaric, he is currently too preoccupied to pay much attention. Damon pours two good measures of bad bourbon, and pushes one into Alaric’s hand, removing the warm beer first.

“Thanks,” Alaric says, still a million miles away.

“Want me to tell you again about the time I fucked your wife?”

This gets a response, but it’s not a very impassioned one. “Please don’t. I’m sure you have a story or two I haven’t heard.”

Damon rolls his eyes. “There’s one I know about a high school History teacher with a hot vampire boyfriend he keeps ignoring. It ends with the hot vampire boyfriend staking him in the gut just to get some attention.” Grumbling.

Alaric looks up, amused. “Am I that bad? Sorry,” he says, placing a hand on Damon’s leg.

It’s a rare, pure gesture, and it makes Damon run a little warmer. It’s not as if they’re a secret anymore, but still, they’re pretty private, and the occasional public expression of affection is like a brightly wrapped gift.

The door to the Grill opens, and spews forth an assortment of supernatural teenagers. Not teenagers. Young adults, Damon has to remind himself; they’re allowed to drink in bars and hire cars, now. Surreal. They’re in town for a couple of weeks from their various colleges. Damon has no idea why.

Alaric grimaces as they approach. “Need a minute, if I have to deal with them,” he mutters, slipping from his stool, heading for the men’s room.

If Alaric is avoiding the Scooby squad, things are worse than Damon thought.

Elena Gilbert, sweetness and light, pauses to plant a kiss on Damon’s cheek. It is a little disturbing that she looks older than her eternally seventeen-year-old boyfriend now (sort-of boyfriend. They’re taking things slowly). Damon gives her a tense smile.

“You okay?” she asks. She’s always been a little too observant.

“Peachy,” Damon answers, less than half a smile on his face. Elena frowns.

“Liar,” she says, closing one eye. “Ric still…?” she makes a gesture with both hands, one which defies comprehension.

Damon deftly sidesteps. The last person he wants to talk to about any of this is, well. Anyone. But certainly not Elena. He hadn’t realised anyone else had noticed Alaric was behaving differently.

“I don’t know what-” Damon imitates the gesture. “-that means. He’s just Ric, Elena. He’s weird and grouchy and he thinks too much,” Damon grumbles, frowning. “Perfectly normal.”

Behind Elena, Stefan hovers. Stefan hovers a lot, these days, still unsure of his place, looking at Elena like he can’t work out why she still speaks to him at all. Stefan gives Damon a concerned look, but he won’t ask questions.

Sometimes, Damon thinks he misses the cocky ripper douche. At least him, you could read.

“Want me to talk to him?” Elena is so sure of her ability to fix any problem, it doesn’t even bother her when she doesn’t know what the problem is. It’s irritating and adorable in equal measure.

Damon wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. “No. Thanks. Talk about what? No.” He steps from his bar stool and throws back the last of his bourbon. After considering a moment, he finishes Alaric’s as well, and though it clearly confuses Alaric, who is ambling back from the bathroom, distracted as ever, he simply accepts it. As he accepts everything these days.

They stay a while, playing pool, and Alaric seems to rouse a little, temporarily. They trade quips and Damon teaches the kids a thing or two about basic physics.

“Seriously, ’Lena, I know you didn’t pay attention to anything but history and English at school, but it’s not complicated. Angle of incidence equals angle of refraction.” He expertly sinks two balls.

“Shut up, Damon,” Elena answers, but there is no menace in her tone.

Alaric sits in a nearby booth, staring at nothing, mostly, but more than once, Damon catches him watching the proceedings with a fond smile. When Elena and Stefan fail to beat Damon and Bonnie for the third time in a row, Damon sidles up to him.

“You want to leave?” he asks. “Or are you enjoying sapping all the energy out of the room?”

Alaric winces. “Sorry.” He says it a lot, these days, and every time, Damon wants to hit him. They say their farewells.

“Lunch tomorrow, Ric?” Elena asks, shooting Damon a meaningful look.

“Sure,” Alaric agrees, absently, and he and Damon take their leave.

“All that dancing on the table isn’t good for your reputation as the local vampire-hunting badass, Ric,” Damon mutters.

“Yeah,” Alaric agrees, eyes unfocussed, ambling down the main street.

**

Once they are inside the loft, Alaric turns and tenses, preparing for the inevitable first step; within moments of the door being closed, Damon generally throws him against the wall.

Instead, this time, Damon stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed, strumming the fingers of one hand across the bicep of his other arm.

“Don’t make me do this, Ric,” he says, distinct warning in his tone.

“Like I can make you do anything you don’t wanna do,” Alaric answers, and it sounds like there’s a joke in his tone, but there’s something else, too.

“You’re going to make me channel Caroline fucking Forbes.”

Alaric narrows his eyes. “You gonna paint my toenails? Or make me watch The Notebook? Because, no thanks.” He looks a little off balance, nervous. Crosses cautiously to the small kitchenette to pour them each a drink. If possible, he’s been drinking even more lately, at least when they’re alone. Damon rolls his eyes.

“What. The fuck. Is with you?”

Alaric slumps a little, swirling the bourbon in his glass. “Got a lot on my mind.”

“Like?”

Alaric groans, rubs his eyes. “Can we not?”

“Apparently, yes. Because you’ve been distracted for weeks, and you’ve been refusing to talk about it for exactly as long.” Damon splutters. “So seriously? Whatever the fuck it is, can we just fight about it and move on?”

Alaric puts down his glass with a soft thunk, takes a couple of steps towards Damon, regret and exhaustion twisting his features. “Nothing to fight about, Damon. Seriously. I’m just working through some stuff. Is that allowed?” Hands out in apology.

Damon nods manically. “Yep. It’s fine.” He turns on his heel and crosses to the door.

“You’re leaving?”

Alaric doesn’t sound pissed, just disappointed. Pissed would be better.

“Any special reason I should stay?” Damon has one hand on the doorknob, eyes narrowed on Alaric.

Alaric gives a small smile. “I can think of a few ideas,” he says.

Damon pauses. “There’s supposed to be more to us than that, Ric,” he says, slipping through the door and closing it with a quiet click behind him.

Damon stalks down the hall to the stairs, and stops, torn. If he goes back, he’s afraid Alaric will still be standing in place, looking lost, and he doesn’t want to see that. He also doesn’t want to think about how long Alaric might _keep_ standing there like that if he _doesn’t_ go back.

He goes back.

Alaric is still right where Damon left him, and Damon feels his shoulders drop. For fuck’s sake. When Damon fell in love with Alaric, Alaric was pointing a crossbow at him. And now there is _this_ , and _this_ fucking sucks.

Alaric rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll snap out of it, I swear. Just… stay.”

Damon hates it; the thousand year stare, the long silences. More than once, he’s considered compelling Alaric, just ripping that stupid vervain bracelet off his wrist and making him talk.

But he has time. He can wait. Bunches Alaric’s t-shirt in his fists and kisses him hard, grounding him, bringing him home, and for a little while, things feel okay again; Alaric is big and warm in Damon’s hands, pushing against him, steering him to the bed. Damon is a little rougher than usual, trying to keep Alaric totally present, though it’s evident with every touch that Alaric is right there, every inch of him. Alaric rolls Damon underneath him, holds Damon’s hands over his head.

“How much do you hold back?” he asks, suddenly. Damon is confused.

“Hold what back?” breaking free of Alaric’s grip to pull his t-shirt over his head. Alaric shifts to let him.

“Do you ever think you’ll hurt me? By accident?”

Damon grunts, rolls them both over, pulling at Alaric’s belt and buttons. “I’ve got better control than that,” he says, airily, as Alaric shifts his hips to let Damon neatly remove his jeans, as he claims Alaric’s mouth with his own.

Alaric tenses, pulls away. “No, I mean…” Alaric is suddenly distracted again, and Damon makes a deep growl.

“What?” Frustrated.

“Do you wish you didn’t _have_ to have control like that? Fuck,” Alaric amends. “I’m saying everything wrong.”

Damon pauses a long beat. “You’re doing my head in, Ric.”

Alaric shakes his head, pulling Damon in again. “Forget it,” he says, and rolls them until Damon is underneath him again.

It’s later, much later, and the sweat is cooling on their bodies, when Damon tries once more. Shooting for nonchalant and missing by yards.

“You can talk to me. Or, you should be able to. You know that, right?”

Lying alongside Alaric, feeling the imprint of Alaric’s lips all over his body, tasting Alaric’s blood in his mouth.

“I know.” Alaric tangles the fingers of one hand into Damon’s, putting the other behind his head. “I want to. I will. I just… can’t, yet. Something I have to work out for myself.”

Damon is silent a long time, finally rolling over, securing himself against Alaric’s side. “Just tell me you’re not going anywhere. I’m old. I can wait for almost anything. But if you’re thinking about leaving…”

“Now you’re channelling Elena. Not going anywhere, Damon.”

Damon wants to play twenty questions, wants to poke and prod and compel and force until Alaric talks.

Instead, he snakes an arm over Alaric’s chest, ghosting his fingers over the shallow bite in Alaric’s side, not yet an hour old, and kisses his jaw, wondering if there’s any chance at all that he’ll sleep tonight.

Apparently not.

“Are you awake?” he asks Alaric, at least an hour later, knowing full well that Alaric’s breath and heartbeat haven’t settled into the sweet sleep pattern he knows so well.

“Yeah,” Alaric admits, pulling Damon a little closer.

“I could compel you.”

Alaric tenses. “That threat got old years ago. One, you wouldn’t. Two, if you did, we’d be in serious trouble.”

Damon rolls his eyes, reaches for the bedside lamp and switches it on. “It wasn’t a threat, idiot. It was an offer.”

Alaric snorts. “Sweet of you, but I’ll pass.” His tone is light, but his expression is still haunted. Damon rolls until Alaric is under him, head framed in Damon’s arms, their faces an inch apart.

“You want to talk. I want you to talk. Might be easier.” Damon leans until their foreheads touch, and Alaric’s face relaxes, his eyes drifting shut.

Damon brushes his lips over Alaric’s eyelids. “Just talk to me,” he says again, softer this time. “Much as I enjoy violence, I’d rather not do you any real damage. I don’t like it when you’re pissy and uncooperative.”

Alaric raises an eyebrow and cocks his head, running his hands over Damon’s arms. Damon rolls his eyes.

“Fine. I don’t like you uncooperative,” he amends, taking Alaric’s bottom lip in his mouth, sensing Alaric’s quickening pulse.

Alaric opens his eyes again, and Damon holds them with his own. It’s a challenge, maybe. Alaric runs his hands over Damon’s sides. “I just need a bit of time, Damon.”

“How _much_ time? Seriously? You’ve been like this for weeks,” Damon says, irritated again. Alaric frowns.

“That patience you were bragging about didn’t last long.”

“I said I can be patient. I didn’t say I liked it.” Rubbing soft kisses into Alaric’s face, feeling the stubble, rough against his mouth. “Life’s too short.”

Alaric’s eyes snap to Damon’s.

“I know. Ironic,” Damon says, rolling over to turn the light off again. “G’night, Ric,” he says, settling his head on Alaric’s chest, fingers splayed gently against Alaric’s side.

“G’night, Damon,” Alaric answers, settling against the pillows again, covering Damon’s elegant hand with his own. 


	2. In which Alaric poses questions

Everything, everything, is awkward and uncomfortable. Those who know what happened look at Stefan like he’s a monster. Which is fair. Those who don’t know what happened look at him like a strange kid, youngest in the Salvatore line, who behaves oddly and has stolen the heart of the last Gilbert girl.

Recovering from a four-month blood binge shouldn’t take two years. It’s further evidence that the world is grossly unfair. Stefan smiles small, talks smaller. Watches everything from beneath heavy eyelids, trying to keep under the radar.

Sometimes, when he speaks, his voice is scratchy from underuse, and it makes him want to tear hearts from chests, bathe in cooling blood. Some days Stefan wants half the town dead and the other half mourning.

(The thought keeps him from descending the stairs, sometimes. He lies in bed and shakes like a junkie, cutting half-moons into the palms of his hands with his fingernails, biting his own arms. Sometimes he wishes he could leave a mark, hates the feeling of the skin knitting shut. After what he’s done he deserves to be branded, permanently.)

The only people who speak to him with any kind of regularity are Elena, Damon and Alaric, and Elena’s away at school most of the time. Even Caroline and Bonnie tend to talk to him via Elena. Damon is as watchful as a cat, looking for signs Stefan might slip (a gesture Stefan hates and appreciates equally).

Alaric is actually a relief, sometimes. He’s always had a remarkable ability to take things in his stride.

It’s yet another fucking awful Founder’s Day event and Stefan is wearing his least favourite suit. It’s too hot for any of the ones he actually finds tolerable. Elena looks amazing in a red sundress that shows off her tan, and Stefan wants to draw her in close, smell her, but he won’t. Though Stefan doesn’t trust himself yet he has hope. He’s driven to Richmond to spend a weekend with her several times and more than once, he’s heard that rich laugh that used to come so easily to her.

It’s Stefan who won’t let Elena any closer. Their little secret. Close but only so close. She has started to push, a little. The steps Stefan makes are smaller and more tentative.

It’s nice to have Elena here for a little while. Things feel like they used to, sort of.

Stefan rubs his eyes. Life would be a lot easier if he didn’t have to pretend to be normal.

There’s a whisper of roses in the air, and then Elena is in the chair beside him. “Hi,” she says. “Having fun?”

Stefan smiles as broadly as he can manage. “Always. You look beautiful,” he says. “Do you have any official duties today?”

“I’m accepting a check for my mom’s foundation. That’s all.” She smiles fondly. “We’re all going to the Grill after. We’ll sneak out as soon as no one’s paying attention. Do you want to come?”

Stefan takes a breath. “I’ll see how it goes.” Truth is, it’s hard being around people who don’t want him around.

“They’ll get used to you, again, Stefan,” Elena says. Her big brown eyes are full of warmth, and he feels her small, firm hand on his shoulder. She stands and walks away, leaving Stefan’s heart racing a little.

Damon is making the rounds, charming as ever, making people laugh. Amazing, how easy it is for him. He’s changed from the sociopathic douchebag he was for so long. He’s not like he was as a human – was never this cocky back then – but Alaric’s influence has made him gentler, like he was all those years ago; and he seems to like it when people rely on him, puffing himself up, smirking and glowing under the praise.

He always knows exactly where in the room Alaric is. Every few moments his eyes flicker to Alaric, checking on him. Much as Stefan watches constantly for Elena.

Alaric is ensconced in a conversation with a couple of fellow teachers.

Well. They are ensconced. He gazes at nothing, and doesn’t seem to know what they are talking about. His expression is blank. When asked a direct question, he takes several seconds to notice. Complains of a headache, and excuses himself, slipping out to the patio.

Stefan sits for a long moment, and then follows.

It takes a minute or two, but he finally finds Alaric in the rose garden, pacing and breathing, breathing and pacing. Running a hand through his hair.

“Hi,” Stefan says, hands slung low in his pockets.

Alaric looks up with a start, nods in acknowledgment. “Hey.” He stills, crossing his arms over his chest.

Stefan cocks his chin in the direction of the mansion. “Not the most stimulating conversation,” he guesses.

“Just a bit claustrophobic. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look fine, and Stefan finds himself battling the urge to whistle the opening bars to _hellhound on my tail_. But he nods, and turns on his heel, heading back.

“Stefan?”

The expression on Alaric’s face defies description. He’s wrestling with something. It reminds Stefan of the look Elena wore all the months she was coaxing Stefan back to himself, back to them all, determined and unsure from one ugly moment to the next.

Alaric opens and closes his mouth. Stefan takes a few steps towards him and waits. Patient. Something he doesn’t imagine Alaric gets from Damon too often.

“You’ve had friends, right?”

Stefan has to smile. Alaric isn’t likely to be approached to write an advice column anytime soon but he’s not usually completely tactless, either. Which means he doesn’t meant this to sound the way it does.

“Sure. A couple. You want to rephrase the question? Or are you trying to tell me you don’t like me any more?”

Alaric rubs his eyes. “Sorry, man,” he says. “I just mean. Damon’s always been pretty solitary. But you had Lexi. Other friends. Vampires.”

Stefan nods. “Sure.” Remembering his dead best friend always gives him a pang.

“Ever known a vampire who never killed anyone?”

Stefan stills suddenly. Draws a deep breath. “Why would you ask that?”

Alaric gives him a withering look. “Thinking about writing a paper. It doesn’t matter why I’m asking and it’s just between us. So have you? Known anyone?”

Stefan studies his toes a moment, and even considers lying. Knows Alaric wouldn’t appreciate it. “No. Honestly. None.” Alaric frowns. “But I’ve known a few who didn’t kill many. Lexi didn’t, except in self-defence or desperation. Well,” he amends, “after the first few weeks. If you turn someone, you’re responsible for them. Supposed to show them the ropes. Lexi got left behind. She had no idea what was going on.” Stefan lowers himself to seated on one end of a small garden bench. “No idea what was happening to her.”

“But she fed on human blood. Right up until…”

“Right up until Damon staked her to ingratiate himself with Sherriff Van Helsing?”

He doesn’t mean it to sound so bitter. But, he is bitter. So.

Alaric turns his head away, and Stefan feels bad. Alaric wasn’t even in Mystic Falls then. Under the circumstances – Alaric and Damon having to take over from Lexi’s role in vampire rehabilitation – he supposes such a casual reference to her murder might sting.

At last, Stefan nods. “She’d compel them. All they’d remember afterwards was that a beautiful girl had spoken to them, maybe flirted a little. Just some vague soreness around the bite. She used to give them a pinprick of blood. Only enough to heal, not enough so they’d notice the… other… effects.”

Hilariously, Alaric actually blushes a little. For fuck’s sake, Stefan does live in the boarding house. Hears enough to know there’s a fair bit of blood exchange going on in his big brother’s bedroom. He averts his eyes, lets Alaric have a private moment.

“Is it… hard?” Alaric asks, after a long pause. “Knowing what you’ve done?’

Stefan slumps a little. Studies a snag on the knee of his suit pants, worrying at it with his fingernail.

“It’s fucking impossible,” he admits at last. “But Lexi always said that what you’ve done matters less than what you do next. I miss her,” he adds. “Especially now. With… everything.”

Alaric puts a hand on Stefan’s shoulder. It’s a surprise, but Alaric is a surprising guy. Stefan rises to his feet.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he says.

“Actually…” Alaric runs a finger under his collar. He looks as uncomfortable in a suit as Stefan is. “One other thing?”

Stefan can almost taste the question before Alaric shapes words to ask it, and he wants to snap Alaric’s neck before he gets a chance to say the words out loud. Numbly, he says “shoot.”

“Do you… miss… killing people? Do you still want to?”

How it happens Stefan doesn’t know but suddenly, he has his fists curled in the collar of Alaric’s jacket and his relatively fragile, breakable, human friend is hard up against the stone pillar that marks the west edge of the rose-trellis wall. Alaric is scrabbling for breath and he should look fearful, but he doesn’t.

Stefan issues a growl, a threat. Accompanied by black eyes and engorged capillaries and teeth so suddenly _there_ that Stefan nicks his own lip and cannot help but lick the blood away. “Every fucking day,” Stefan admits. “Some days it’s all I think about. The days when I don’t leave my room? I’m up there trying _not_ to imagine the streets of Mystic Falls red with blood. Elena’s limp body falling from my arms. Presenting your corpse to Damon as a joke he could never forgive, so I’d be free of him at last.”

A year or more passes, there in the rose garden where Stefan once caught his brother giving Alaric a blow job, their mutual admiration evident in Damon’s wide eyes, in Alaric’s fond smile, in the moments before Damon’s lips and tongue stripped him of his last shred of control.

A year or more, or perhaps a single moment stretched further than physics and all the immutable natural laws generally permit.

Alaric doesn’t flinch, though he ought to. He should run back to Durham. Further, back to Boston, back to before Isobel and vampires. Alaric doesn’t even try to wrench his clothing out of Stefan’s grasp, though that would also be a solid choice.

Instead he grips Stefan’s hand firmly in his own, his long, strong fingers curled over Stefan’s, as warm and real as the sun on Stefan’s back. It’s a gesture of solidarity and understanding so tangible and so fiercely meant that Stefan wants to lean against Alaric’s body, be held a moment.

“Thank you,” Alaric says, with one firm nod.

Stefan is surprised. Lets go of Alaric’s jacket and steps back a notch. Settles his features back to human.

“Just between us,” Alaric says, all cool, concerned calm. “If that’s alright with you.” It’s a request and a promise in one.

Stefan nods. He considers apologising but knows Alaric doesn’t need that.

He heads back up to the house, mind a whirl.

 _So_ , he thinks, putting one foot in front of the other until it becomes habit again. _Alaric Saltzman is trying to decide whether or not to become a vampire_.

Of course, it’s impossible not to think about it. Impossible. Once you know vampires exist you have to wonder. And for a human who is in love with a vampire – and Damon and Alaric might spend a whole day taking turns staking Stefan if he ever made the point out loud himself, but there’s no question about it, they are in love – it’s not just a possibility, but a decision you have to make.

Very interesting. This is what has Alaric turned upside down. Stefan wouldn’t have thought Alaric would even consider it, no matter how strong his feelings for Damon might be. He wonders if Damon knows. Decides at once that Damon must be in the dark, or Alaric wouldn’t be acting so cagey.

Stefan has been watching his brother’s mounting frustration for weeks. He’s noticed that unless Damon is physically touching him, Alaric seems to float away like an untethered kite, and only Damon’s fierce hand on his shoulder or determined lips on his neck brings him back down again. Damon spends more time than he probably wants to keeping Alaric present.

It hadn’t been a surprise, when Damon started sleeping with Alaric; the surprise was more that Alaric started sleeping with Damon. Practical, stoic Alaric and Stefan’s hedonistic brother had seemed an odd pair. Damon had always been up for anything – or anyone. But a relationship developing between two people who started out intent on killing each other seemed a bit fairy-tail-esque. Although. Vampire, hunter. Maybe it should have seemed fated.

It was a much bigger surprise when they actually started admitting out loud that they were together, more than just balm to each other’s wounds. They balanced each other beautifully.

It wasn’t until Damon and Alaric put voice to it that Stefan realised Damon had never really been in a relationship before. Not since Katherine, anyway. Damon had occasionally kept someone he was particularly fond of – for a few weeks, a few months, maybe – but he’d never really liked anyone enough to want them around long-term. Never been driven by it. Certainly, never let anyone be his equal. Perhaps Katherine’s spectre had kept him from even considering it.

The thought of Damon and Alaric staying together – on a permanent, undead basis – cheers Stefan, a little. It would be nice to have a second brother, especially one a little less prone to long fits of sarcasm.

As he climbs the steps up onto the balcony, he nods at Caroline, who gives him a shaky smile, and Bonnie, who nods firmly back.

Stefan wonders if it’s actually possible to be a vampire and not kill. Frankly, he doubts it. But again, Alaric is a surprising guy. And Damon will probably do whatever it takes to keep him. He’ll help.

Speaking of.

“Were you just with Ric?” Damon demands, looking irritated.

“Ate him and dumped him out near the rose bushes. But he was wearing his ring. I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Stefan slaps his brother’s shoulder, walking past him.

“You’re funny, Stefan,” Damon sings.

Stefan turns. “He was bored. Went for a walk. Is he not allowed?”

Damon rolls his eyes.

“Come on,” Stefan says stiffly. “’Lena’s up there. The official bit’s about to start. Let’s just get this fucking thing over with.”


	3. In which Alaric is gone for the weekend

Elena wakes early in the house she no longer wants but can’t bear to part with and descends the stairs to the kitchen. On the bench is Alaric’s phone, and a note to say he’s gone for the weekend and can she please tell Damon he’ll be back Sunday night.

Elena’s stomach drops.

She calls Stefan to ask his advice. “Do you think Ric’s gonna leave him?” she asks, in a voice she hopes is so small it couldn’t disturb the air enough to make it true.

Stefan makes a sound that might be a laugh, but is probably a sigh. “No,” he insists. “Alaric’s not going anywhere. Probably just needs a weekend to himself.”

“Can you come over?”

Stefan pauses for a long beat. “Sure,” he says, and less than a minute passes before his soft, reassuring knock breaks Elena’s reverie.

Stefan offers a stuttering smile before stepping cautiously over the threshold. He seems surprised, each time, that he is still allowed inside, and Elena wishes each time that she knew how to heal the hole in his heart.

“Hold my hand while I call Damon?” she asks. Stefan nods.

Damon is silent longer than Stefan was, but he begins his spluttering soon enough. “What do you mean, he left his phone?”

“It’s here on the table next to the note. I thought I was pretty clear on that.” Elena enjoys the bravado but does not believe it.

“Put Stefan on,” Damon insists, and Elena hands the phone over, glad to surrender it. Stefan whispers soothing words about taking a break from local chaos and finally presses the hang-up button.

“I think Ric’s going to leave,” Elena says again.

Stefan shakes his head. “He’s not. Trust me on that. Trust him.”

“What will Damon do?” Elena winces. “If Ric leaves? What will _I_ do?”

“We’ll never find out. Stay calm. Breathe.”

Elena smiles and breathes theatrically, ruffling the hair that falls across her face. Stefan can’t help it, pushes a heavy strand behind her ear. Elena presses her cheek against the palm that is left behind by the gesture.

Stefan pulls away, and Elena sighs.

“I’d love a time frame. Even a vague one. Why do you keep visiting me at school, if you don’t want to at least try?”

Stefan takes a step back. “I do want to. I do. I just… I don’t trust myself, yet, Elena. I’m sorry.”

Elena wants explanations. Wants to know if Stefan’s dreams are still red and full of the sounds of screaming. Wants to know what is left of the man she loves, in the shell which seems at times so timid and almost weak, and at other times vibrates with predatory zeal.

Instead, she takes a step away. “Coffee?” she asks. Bright and breezy, the girl Stefan loved first and best, before werewolves and doppelgangers and all the rest.

When dangerous ground is breached they retreat to what they do best and watch films. Old films, always, none of Damon’s godawful vampire movies. Classics. Black and white. Women with mournful, haunted eyes and men with strong hands. Fur coats. In front of a film Stefan will let Elena slip unremarked under his arm, will let her lean her head against his chest. If she is careful and slow he will let her spread her palm over his muscular chest, perhaps even tuck it against his side.

“So handsome,” she breathes.

Stefan chuckles. “And an amazing actor. Gay, of course. Gay as a Maypole.”

Elena catches his eyes, appalled. “Cary Grant was not gay. You’re just being mean because I said he was handsome. What, did he beat you at poker once or something?”

Stefan cocks an eyebrow. “Are you kidding? I beat the shit out of him at poker. Also, his real name was Archibald.”

Elena pulls halfway out of his arms. “Really?”

Stefan’s mouth curves into a smile which either means he’s fucking with Elena or he’s deadly serious and can’t believe her doubts. The fact Elena can’t tell the difference transports her back years.

Still, she’s not sure. Punches Stefan in the stomach.

“I swear, Elena,” he says with an easy smile, “I’ve never met Cary Grant. But his real name really was Archibald.”

When Stefan is comfortable, his old, soft smile settles across his features and Elena wants to reach across the solar system and pull him into her, against her. But he will pull away if she does it now so she gives him a suspicious smile instead.

Elena climbs off the couch to grab the laptop computer lying under the coffee table. “Cary Grant was not gay,” she insists again. “Liar.”

When she opens the internet browser, the world takes on a very confusing tint.

There are over a dozen tabs open, and every one is open to jewellery with lapis lazuli stones.

Elena forgets all about Cary Grant and his heavily disputed sexuality. Flicks between pages, incredulous. Spends almost a whole five minutes thinking about the fact that without exception, every one of the pieces of jewellery is ugly beyond measure, but finds herself picturing Stefan’s ring, picturing Damon’s ring, and wonders if maybe a dark blue stone is just always going to make for ugly jewellery.

Stefan is studying her with a concerned non-smile.

“What is it?”

Elena ignores him for longer than she realises, when he reaches a cautious hand to curl around the ankle that rests on the couch, close to his thigh.

“Stefan,” she starts, like there’s something to ask (though the answers are plain enough, here on the screen) and then she stops.

Rings and pendants and a strange, ugly watch. Oh my.

Elena would never forget the week she stopped being the centre of Damon’s universe and became his little sister. One day she could feel his eyes on her everywhere she went. The next, he only had eyes for Alaric.

Elena had read about imprinting in biology in sophomore year, the way a baby duck can always identify its own mother. She found herself watching Damon for signs of a quack. None was forthcoming. Instead there was Alaric, reluctant and confused, caught between hating Damon for fucking, killing and turning his wife, and grabbing at Damon’s clothes every time they thought they were alone (it should be said, they thought this was the case far more often than it was. They were so wrapped up in each other. It was… beautiful, if a big surprise).

And then one night – Alaric’s birthday, his thirty-fifth – everyone was at the boarding house and Elena had baked a cake everyone was too kind to mention was lopsided and burnt, and Damon had produced a red velvet cake initially presumed to be store-bought but which, he revealed, he had made himself, iced himself in perfect homemade fondant, decorated himself, and the best explanation he could give was that he couldn’t think of anything better to do that day (and by the way, Elena, fuck you. So I can bake. And?).

In the middle of the cake was one candle.

Alaric, long-suffering, had not complained about the singing, and had blown out the cheerful little flame.

“Did you make a wish?” Elena had asked, as Jeremy brought the lights back up.

Alaric had looked momentarily confused. “No,” he’d said, uncertain, like he no longer knew what he should ask for, or that he perhaps had all that he wanted.

“By the way,” Damon had said to everyone and no one; “we’re a thing.” Pointing at Alaric, pointing at himself. Eyebrows furrowed in the middle.

No one had known quite where to look, and Alaric had shaken his head.

“Damon. Seriously. Horse has bolted.” Alaric had said this with an amused dignity that had made Elena smile. And Caroline, and Bonnie, and for that matter, Tyler, and even Jeremy, home for Thanksgiving.

Damon rolled his eyes and punched Alaric in the arm – not lightly, but not hard either.

“Idiot,” he’d grumbled. “Half the people in this room are supernatural. All have eyes and ears. Everyone knows we’re fucking.” Damon had lifted a large knife, stood to pierce the centre of the cake and cut the neatest slices ever sliced; “they don’t know we’re in love. Elena? Get the ice cream, would you?”

Elena had stood silently, heart beating right out of her chest. She had felt the most overwhelming urge to nestle herself in between Damon and Alaric and finally feel safe forever. To forget about her strung-out boyfriend, locked in the basement dungeon, screaming for her blood.

Instead she got the ice cream.

Of all people, it had been Matt that spoke.

“Cool,” he’d said, and then “can I have a big slice?”

And there is a voice, and the voice is Stefan’s, not screaming in the basement cellar but quietly concerned on the couch alongside her and it’s now, not then. And Alaric wants lapis lazuli jewellery.

Without commentary, Elena passes the laptop across her bent knees and into Stefan’s arms.

After a brief glance, he says, of all things, “oh,” before he closes the laptop and slides it to the floor.

“Oh?” Elena shakes her head. “Really? Oh?”

“Maybe he wants a gift for Damon.”

Elena shakes her head again and this time, there’s more vigour. She could sustain an injury. “Because Damon needs more ugly jewellery?” She swings her legs down from the couch and reaches for the laptop.

Stefan stops her mid-reach. Blocks her arms. “’Lena…” he starts. Elena sits back.

“What do you know?” She’s irritated.

“Yes, little brother, what _do_ you know?”

Neither had heard Damon slip into the house but his glare weighs upon them both. Stefan looks guilty; Elena doesn’t know what her own expression betrays, only that it betrays her.

Damon’s arms are crossed and he looks pissed.

He looks more pissed than confused but less pissed than hurt.

Elena kicks Stefan’s leg, because she can reach it. Stefan bows his head. Elena stands and collects the laptop from the floor. Carries it to the kitchen bench while Damon doesn’t take a step but follows her with his eyes.

Elena shrinks from that look, and opens the laptop. Damon doesn’t take his eyes off her.

“What?” he barks.

“You’re an ass,” she counters. “It’s Alaric’s computer. Look.”

“What do you know?” Damon is a second away from stomping his feet.

Elena long ago gave up pandering to Damon’s insecurities. She doesn’t speak, just steps away from the computer and leans against the back of the couch. Damon’s eyes don’t leave hers. Elena reaches a hand behind her until Stefan relents and holds it in his own.

Damon rolls his eyes and takes a step, and another, and a third, toward the computer. Arms still crossed. Elena can almost feel his eyes narrowing and widening at the screen. Finally he reaches for the keyboard, flicking quickly between the different browser tabs.

“And?” he asks.

“Oh, my god, Damon. Are you serious?” Elena wants to shake him. Doesn’t want to dislodge her tiny hand from Stefan’s large one.

Damon closes the computer. “Where was it?”

Elena takes it from him and slides it back under the coffee table. Damon paces. “Shut up,” he says, irritable. “I mean it.”

Elena wants to point out that no one but Damon is speaking but she doesn’t.

Stefan cocks his chin. “Hardest decision you ever made, Damon,” he says. “Don’t think. Just tell me.”

“Joining the confederate army. No. Leaving the confederate army.” He doesn’t stop pacing. “Your point?”

Stefan nods gently. “How were you? Before you made your decision?”

Damon stops mid-stride. He looks young and lost, but no less pissed for all of that.

Elena wants to leave, wants to help and wants to rewind until she never touched that computer. Until she never saw the note. Never called Damon. Never called Stefan.

She gives Stefan’s hand one more quick squeeze. “I’m gonna…” she says, pointing at the stairs. Damon nods. And she goes.

**

It’s later but not much when Stefan’s soft knock ends Elena’s pacing. She calls out. “It’s open.”

Stefan waits too long but opens her bedroom door at last. Stands in the hallway.

“Come in, Stefan,” she says, after a sigh. Stefan shakes his head.

“No. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I should go.” Hesitant.

Elena crosses the room to lean against the door jamb. “Alaric…?”

Stefan studies his toes. They appear to be an endless source of fascination for him since he stopped killing people again.

“Stefan.” Soft and chiding.

Stefan lets his eyes drift to closed and then opens them again. “They love each other,” he says simply. “And Alaric’s not seventeen and he’s not twenty-one either. And he hasn’t decided, not yet, or he would have told Damon. But you and I?” he reaches for Elena’s hand. “We don’t get to have an opinion.”

Elena shakes her head. “Everyone always gets to have an opinion. Don’t you want Damon to be happy?”

After a pause, Stefan nods. Elena’s heart drops.

“Does he… does Damon not want this?”

Stefan meets her eyes. “I’ve never seen him want anything so badly before. My whole life,” he admits. “He was… we were kids when we met Katherine,” he adds. “We haven’t been kids for a long time.”

Elena furrows her brow. “He was twenty-four.”

Stefan smiles fondly. “It’s a number. We were kids. We had no idea.”

Elena takes a step forward, and Stefan takes a step back. “Am I a kid?”

Stefan shakes his head. “You were, though. You were. You should be. I ruined it. Damon and I ruined it.” Elena sighs.

“Is it… is it what you wanted for me? For us?”

Stefan shakes his head. “No. Never. I want you to have a normal life. Children.”

At this, Elena laughs. “Children? I don’t think so. The line ends with me.” She takes another step towards Stefan and this time he doesn’t shift away. She knows from here he can feel the warmth radiating from her body.

“Elena…” Stefan whispers. “I don’t know if there can ever be a happy ending for us.”

She puts one hand on his hip, and he doesn’t pull away. Puts her other hand on his other hip and still he is just there, right there, warming beneath her touch.

“No one knows,” Elena says, as she leans her body against Stefan’s, as she draws him closer, letting her hands play across the small of his back. “Not them, either. It’s a leap of faith."

When Stefan presses his lips to hers, her own words echo in her ears. They are a long way from what they were and neither has any idea of what they might be next, but Stefan’s hand is in Elena’s hair and he moans a little against her mouth, altogether too gentle and tender, and she decides anew that if she hasn’t given up yet, well, she won’t give up soon.


	4. In which Alaric’s father can read the strings

It’s an hour and change from Mystic Falls to the airport in Charlottesville. Alaric doesn’t have any luggage to check so he clears security quickly and is sitting in a cramped seat in the back of coach before he knows it. Alaric hates to fly but a twelve hour drive in each direction to see his dotty parents and make it home in time to watch HBO on Sunday night is a bit much.

Alaric has a centre seat. To his left, by the window, a bloated businessman who smells like cheap perfume and is filtering scotch through his pores. Alaric suspects he was at a strip club up until it was time to head to the airport and is grateful the man’s snores are at least soft.

To his right, a woman in her late twenties who smiles sweetly and tries to inspect Alaric’s left hand for signs of a wedding ring, chattering away when she doesn’t find one. Asking him about his work, why he’s travelling. She is able somehow to prevent herself from crawling into Alaric’s lap. Alaric is somehow able to prevent himself from telling her his vampire boyfriend is the jealous murderous type.

A young hostess with more spunk than Alaric generally sees on America’s lacklustre shuttle services takes pity on him and when Miss Lonelyhearts stops talking for long enough to take a bathroom break, she passes Alaric two too-small bottles of Jack Daniels and a plastic cup.

“Here,” she says, conspiratorial. “You look like you need this.”

“And how,” Alaric agrees, handing back the empty bottles. It’s barely eight am on the East Coast, but it must be noon somewhere.

There’s a thirty minute layover in New York which Alaric spends drinking a pale liquid that claims to be coffee, wishing he liked it sweet and milky so it at least tasted like something.

The second flight, from New York to Boston, is only forty minutes long.

In Boston he hires a car and drives the long way to his parents’ house.

Alaric’s parents are old. When he was born they were both in their forties (‘a wonderful surprise’, Alaric’s mother called him; a ‘horrible shock’ was what Alaric privately suspected) and now somehow his father is eighty, his mother not far behind. They are staying in their house until the end, are determined to. There is a nurse who comes during the day, another who stays the night. They can afford it.

Alaric never surprises them. But this trip was decided upon in sleeplessness well after midnight the night before. He’ll stay in a hotel, if he needs to, knows they wear out easily.

The nurse opens the door.

“Thank you, but we’re not interested,” she says politely, trying to shut it again.

Alaric grins. “I’m Alaric. You’re new.”

The nurse looks surprised, but steps back, noticing after a brief, narrow glare that the face in the doorway matches the face in the photos that line the walls. “They didn’t tell me you were coming.” She says it like an accusation.

“They didn’t know.”

“Come on,” she says. “Your father’s out the back, since it’s warm. Your mother is asleep.” She has an accent. South African, perhaps. “I’ll bring tea.”

Alaric drops his bag by the faded couch and looks around the room that has barely changed in thirty years. Up on a glass-fronted cabinet stands his wedding photo, he and Isobel so young and optimistic, and he has to turn away from it.

Alaric’s father is dozing in a rocking chair, a light cotton blanket over his lap. A cat Alaric doesn’t recognise sleeps lightly on his knees. Two others watch Alaric with cool curiosity from under the lemon tree he and his father planted over the very first dead cat when Alaric was eight (when Damon was twenty-four). A fourth lies with his belly exposed beneath the apple tree they planted over a whole litter of stillborn kittens when Alaric was twelve (when Damon was still, miraculously, twenty-four).

After a time Alaric’s father rouses from his light slumber. “Son,” he says. “Or did I die?”

“It’s me.” Alaric stands to kiss his father on his soft cheek. “I know you’re not a fan of surprises, dad,” he says. “But it’s been a while.”

He nods. “No, no. Always good to see you. When are you leaving?”

When Alaric was in college, he’d visit his parents and they’d say ‘how long are you staying?’ Now it’s ‘when are you leaving?’ They are old. They love him, but they don’t understand him. They are glad Alaric is the man he is but they want their days predictable, up until the end.

He understands.

(A year after Isobel disappeared both of Alaric’s parents began to weaken, first at an alarming rate, slowing to a gradual decline. He started to make arrangements to move home and care for them until one Sunday afternoon his father poured them each generous measures of a very old cognac he’d kept in the cupboard. He’d been planning to open it when Alaric produced a grandchild.

“We don’t want you here,” he’d said, pressing a glass into Alaric’s hand. “We love you, son. But the end is undignified and you’re a young man. Go and find someone new to love. Call us. Call us on Sundays. Visit us once or twice a year. But promise me, Alaric, son. Don’t come back to Boston to live here. We don’t want your best years marred by our worst ones.”

Alaric had shaken his head fondly. “Lots of children do this for their parents,” he’d insisted.

“Not single men in their thirties, Ric.” Alaric’s father had drained his glass, sun-damaged hands shaking slightly. “I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. Go and have a life.”

Alaric had done okay, all things considered.)

“The flight’s at lunchtime tomorrow.”

“What brings you here?” Alaric’s father is a genius for physics and mathematics and when he’s alert, his eyes still shine with a brilliance Alaric finds reassuring.

“Like I said,” Alaric says, reaching for his father’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

The nurse brings tea and Alaric speaks for a time about teaching high school (at this, Alaric’s father shudders. “Young minds are all very well,” he’d said once, “but I prefer graduate students. I like a young mind with a fully developed frontal lobe.”), about caring for Elena, about life in Mystic Falls.

And, “I'm seeing someone, dad.”

“Yeah?” The old man resettles, tapping his pipe on the arm of the chair. He should have quit a long time ago but has to die of something, eventually, and the way things are going it’s not likely to be lung cancer. “What's her name?” Holding the flame to the bowl until the rich chocolate smell of the tobacco makes Alaric smile.

Alaric stoops his head a little. “Damon.”

Alaric's father smiles small and shakes his head. “Always thought if you went that way in the end it would be for that friend of yours. What was his name?”

“Ben.” Alaric leans back in his chair.

“Ben,” he muses. “I always liked him.” Alaric’s father’s mind tends to wander at times, but he’s relatively focused today. “Your Damon. You love him?”

Alaric smiles, nods. “Yeah. Thought I might bring him by one weekend. Not soon,” he adds hastily.

“Do that,” his father muses. “He can't be stranger than your Isobel.”

Alaric tries not to choke on the irony.

Alaric spends an awkward few minutes speaking politely with the woman who gave him life and who now seems to think he is her doctor. When he leans to kiss her on the cheek, her eyes clear, for a moment.

“Son,” she says, and it’s not a question.

“Yeah, mom,” he answers. “How are you?”

“You turned out so handsome,” she says. “I don’t know how we managed that.”

Alaric holds her hand a moment. “You were the prettiest girl in the secretarial pool at Harvard,” he says. “Dad told me.”

“That may be,” she answers wisely. “But _I_ chose your _father_ for his personality, not his looks, God bless him. Are you here to take a blood test?”

For a second Alaric is confused, and then sad.

“No. No blood tests today.”

“Someone keeps taking my shoes,” his mother says, after a long beat, letting her eyes drift to the ceiling.

While his father takes an afternoon nap Alaric takes the rental car and drives around his favourite spots. The milk bar near his high school where he kissed Jenny Chalmers for the first time (why it is you always remember the surnames of the people you loved in school, Alaric has never been sure, but it’s true; you do). The basketball court by the police station where one rare and perfect afternoon in Junior year four cops showed up to join their game.

The secluded corner of a city park where he and Ben got stoned for the first time. Where Ben kissed him, and Alaric gave the speech, _you’re my best friend, Ben, nothing else to it for me_ and they’d pricked each other’s fingers with a safety pin and become blood brothers.

He sleeps on the couch, unwilling to be so far from his parents after all. Drinks bourbon and sifts through photo albums and scrapbooks.

In the end he calls Damon and is surprised at how calm Damon is.

“I wanted to see my parents,” Alaric says. “I should have told you. I should have brought you.” The words come out in a tumble.

Damon is silent. “I’ve never been brought to meet parents before,” he admits. Alaric isn’t sure whether the tone betrays curiosity or disappointment. “When will you be home?”

Alaric smiles and wants to say _run now, run and get me, carry me home now_ but he tells Damon his flight is at noon and he’ll be in Charlottesville before five, in Mystic Falls before six thirty.

Damon is silent a while longer. “Can I meet you at the loft?”

Alaric is surprised. Damon doesn’t ask such things, hasn’t for a long time; he’s just _there_ , wherever he wants to be.

“I’ll see you there,” he answers, in what he hopes is the same reverent tone.

The next morning Alaric watches as his father feeds his mother porridge. She doesn’t seem to recognize either of them but she doesn’t seems upset by their presence, either, and her enthusiasm for the porridge is palpable.

“You’d best go, soon, son,” Alaric’s father says as he lights a pipe a little later, out on the back porch once again.

The South African nurse has shooed the night nurse away and fetched an ashtray. Alaric likes her.

(“Why quit smoking at eighty?” she’d declared the evening before, all sharp corners and blunt planes. “Why extend this out any longer? You Americans.”

“No,” Alaric had answered. “I agree. In fact if I’m still alive at eighty I might take up smoking opium. If I can find any.”

She’d grinned wickedly. “Natasha,” she’d said, extending a hand. Just hours before, she’d insisted he call her ‘Sister’.)

Alaric nods. “Yeah. I have to return the car before I go through security.”

“Son…”

Alaric waits. At last, his father speaks. “I have the… strangest feeling you came to say goodbye.”

Alaric shakes his head. “No. Not goodbye. Just a quick hello.” Still, his father’s prescience is as unsettling as it has always been. Perhaps it’s his affinity for physics and mathematics. Some insight into the music of the spheres, some understanding of the strings that hold the universe together seems to give his father the ability to look in every direction at once and infer the most likely outcome.

Alaric’s father nods, stills, seems to test the air. “And yet that feeling’s there, nonetheless,” he muses. “But I’m old, what do I know.”

 _Everything, apparently._ Alaric leans forward in his chair. “It’s just… the next time I see you, things might be a little different.”

The old man nods wisely. “Things are always different. It’s progress, they say. Son?”

“Yeah?”

“Your Damon,” his father says, softly. “If you’re going to bring him by, don’t leave it too much longer. End’s getting close.”

**

“Someone upgraded your ticket,” says a man on a check-in counter, in response to why Alaric can’t make the self-check-in kiosk work. “Enjoy the flight.” He hands over the boarding passes and Alaric finds himself grinning. Damon fuckin’ Salvatore.

The flight from New York to Charlottesville is damn near pleasant, in First Class. The seat next to Alaric’s is empty and he has a new book.

“You again,” the spunky hostess says, while they are waiting to take off. “Moving up in the world. And it’s after midday. Booze?”

Alaric laughs. “It’s always after midday somewhere,” he says, nodding.

Alaric collects his car from an overpriced parking garage at the Charlottesville airport and wishes he could click his fingers and be home, but it doesn’t take too long and his heart beats a little harder in his chest at each mile marker. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Babump. Babump.

( _Da-mon. Da-mon. Damon. Damon._ )

The loft door is unlocked and inside it is warm and smells like saffron and white wine and mussels, like something Spanish. Alaric grins broadly at Damon’s back.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” he sings. “Fetch my slippers and pour me a martini.”

Damon crosses the room to nestle his nose into Alaric’s neck, to smell the blood that flows just beneath his skin. Doesn’t speak, just presses the length of his body against Alaric’s, lets his hands settle lightly on Alaric’s hips, and breathes, and breathes.

Alaric rubs his hands over Damon’s arms, his shoulders. An apology for leaving without a goodbye or an explanation, maybe.

“I love you,” Alaric says.

(This is evident in all of what they do and even, occasionally, makes itself known in the corners of the things they say, to each other and the wider world. Case in point, _everyone knows we’re fucking. They don’t know we’re in love._

This, however, is the first time it’s been voiced so baldly, and truth be told, Alaric’s not sure where it comes from. It spills from his lips like it has been sitting there waiting for a chance to escape. It is the exact right moment, too, with nothing chasing them and nothing killing them and no chance it can sound like a goodbye.)

Damon pulls away suddenly. Not far. An inch. Two. Holds Alaric’s dark eyes in his slate silver ones.

“Say it again,” he says.

“I love you.”

He steps Alaric into a wall, puts his hands on Alaric’s chest. Holding him in place.

“Say it again.” Commanding.

Alaric smiles. “I love you.” He sounds so sure.

“Again.” Damon narrows his eyes. “Say it a _gain_.”

Alaric leans so he can speak directly into Damon’s mouth.

“I love you,” he says, “I just do. I can keep saying it. If you need me to.”

Damon spends long moments staring at Alaric’s face from scant inches away, searching for doubt, or regret, or embarrassment, but evidently he sees none. He doesn’t close his eyes when Alaric leans to kiss him, just kisses back, hungry.

“I made Paella,” Damon says, unnecessarily.

“Smells amazing.” Alaric shifts his weight, making Damon step back.

And then hours later, full of fresh seafood and spices and wine and bourbon, after a couple of rounds of exhaustive sex that make Alaric feel like the world is righting itself at last, after Damon has bitten him, completing their little dance, after he’s told Damon about Boston and the crazy South African nurse and his brilliant father who can read the strings Damon rolls over to kiss Alaric deeper than deep and says “I love you, too.”


	5. In which Alaric befriends a crow

A couple of days ago, Damon had been sure this little farce was drawing to a close. That Alaric had gone to Boston for some sort of semi-closure, that he’d come home and announce his fantastic plan to live forever and things would go back to normal. Normal, but better. He’d half-expected Alaric to ask him that night. All that talk of love (which still has the nerves in Damon’s flesh rearranging themselves into odd patterns).

Nope.

It’s after five which means classes are well and truly over but Alaric sometimes stays behind to mark papers or plan lessons. Doing it at the school instead of his loft or the boarding house ensures he gets through it faster, because he doesn’t play drinking games with himself in the classroom.

Damon lies back on his improbably large bed, and sends for a crow.

He hasn’t done this in a while – forgets, sometimes, for weeks and years at a time, that he has this skill. It takes less than a minute for a crow to hear his call.

He sometimes wonders what it’s like for one of his crows (and he always thinks of them as ‘his’ crows – like he leaves something of himself behind). To suddenly heed a command that comes from outside of its own nature, to submit to another’s will. But he sends the crow out to the school with barely a thought to this now. Lets it play on the breeze, higher and higher until he fancies he can feel his own shoulders stretching impossibly.

Out in the school grounds the kids are playing sports (football team full of barely repressed homoerotic subtext, cheerleaders with legs forever). The marching band is making an awful lot of noise and while they are certainly moving forward, it’s not ‘marching’ by any stretch of the imagination.

Behind the science building a group of goth kids are poring over magazines and smoking clove cigarettes. The crow drops lazily from the sky to join them, gives a stuttering bow with one wing extended.

“Look,” one of the girls says. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

The crow preens, taking a few halting steps forward, as the girl reaches a tentative hand to touch his feathers.

“He’ll bite you,” warns one of the boys, looking a little jealous. “Why isn’t he biting you?”

The crow eyes each of them in turn, fixing them with a beady look. Submitting to the girl’s careful fingers.

Another girl tears the corner off a sandwich, passing it to the crow, who puts his head back and swallows it whole; then bows again, sort of, and takes flight.

They all watch him go.

(In the boarding house, Damon smirks. They’ll all remember it, their whole lives; a huge black crow showing solidarity with his gothic brothers and sisters.)

He soars over the building and then drops again, swirling on air currents until he lands on the sill outside Alaric’s classroom window.

Alaric is there with a huge pile of papers and an impressive assortment of pens, but he’s not actually working. He’s not actually doing anything. He’s just sitting. The crow, and through his eyes, Damon, watch for a long time.

Occasionally Alaric seems to remember he is supposed to be doing something. He adjusts himself in his seat and drops his eyes to the page. Reads a few lines, maybe even makes a note or two, but soon, his attention drifts.

The crow taps its beak against the window, and Alaric looks up.

(Damon is surprised; he didn’t tell the crow to do this. Perhaps his subconscious mind is after some attention.)

Alaric looks at the papers, again, and then quickly back up. He stands, eyes on the crow, and crosses the room to the window.

The grounds are quiet, now, practise finished, students driving away in hordes. The sun is just starting to set, but it’s bright, still, and Damon can feel the warmth on his feathers.

Alaric pulls the blind away. The sound is grating, and an ordinary crow would have taken flight. This crow stays perched on the windowsill.

Alaric opens the window. There’s no room to stand on the sill as Alaric does this, so the crow takes to the air until the window is open all the way, and then lands again.

Alaric crouches until his eyes are level with the crow’s. “Hello,” he says, solemn.

The crow nods.

“Spyin’ on me?” The crow cocks its head to the side. “Must be really bored, bird.”

Alaric reaches a hand out, runs it over the crow’s thick, shiny plumage, starting with the head and ending just before the tail. Does it a second time, a third. Not cautious like the girl with her small fingers, but strong, ministering to every contour.

(In the boarding house, Damon’s eyes drift shut, and he shivers a little. Alaric’s hand seems huge, and Damon feels its gentle pressure over his spine.)

“You’re enormous,” Alaric says. “Beautiful. Have you come far? Crows do,” he answers himself quickly. “Of course you have.” He offers his arm as a perch.

(Inside the bird’s mind, Damon feels a prickle of alarm; the bird knows he should not be so incautious around a monster but Damon soothes his fears.)

The crow settles upon Alaric’s arm, and Alaric continues to pet it, as he stands, even so bold as to rub under its chin with one curved finger.

“Did you come to keep me company? Or to hurry me along?” The crow offers one clear eye, then the other, and Alaric smiles softly.

“I’ll be home soon, Damon.”

Out the window, Alaric waves his arm until the crow takes off, and Damon relinquishes his hold on it. No choice, when he is so stunned.

A bit after seven, Damon knocks on the loft door, and then opens it, feeling sheepish.

Alaric looks up from where he is cutting vegetables into julienne. “Cool trick, Damon. Can all vampires do that?”

“How did you know?” Damon opens a bottle of wine. Sniffs at the cork, and decides it’s not bad, for a 1985. He chooses a pair of glasses that match, roughly, and polishes them, avoiding Alaric’s amused eyes.

“Elena told me years ago that you used to spy on her with a crow. I always thought she was paranoid.”

Damon raises his eyebrows. “Huh. Didn’t know she knew. Huh. And now that I’m thinking about it, it’s sort of creepy. Oh well.” Damon rarely allows himself more than thirty seconds to regret anything of this calibre.

“So can they?”

Damon pours wine. “Can who what?”

“Can all vampires control birds?”

Damon thinks. “Haven’t a clue. Don’t think Stefan’s ever tried it. It’s probably only the cool vampires.” Damon reaches for his glass, a knob of garlic, and a knife, and begins to expertly mince the garlic into nothing. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.”

Alaric smiles, but doesn’t react. Fair enough, too; God knows Damon jokes about this often enough.

They prepare food in relative silence, mutually agreeable music on Alaric’s creaky stereo, but chat as they eat. Alaric seems relaxed, present. Still he says nothing about his plan.

“Grill later?” Damon suggests. “The kiddies will be heading back to their various colleges on Saturday. Seems like we should see them before they go.”

“Listen to you, all social,” Alaric says, and then “Why not?”

He doesn’t even look reluctant.

It’s an easy evening, at the Grill; Alaric jokes and laughs and loses a game of pool to Elena (deliberately, Damon suspects) and doesn’t seem to notice that both Elena and Stefan are studying him carefully. They drink beer, none too quickly, enjoying the company. Pick at baskets of fries and onion rings. Caroline and Bonnie bicker quietly. Apparently, they’re roommates at UCSD, now, their previous roommates having curtailed their activities somewhat.

“It was a bitch compelling the administration to switch our rooms around. And it’s a bitch living with someone who burns incense, like, constantly.”

Bonnie groans. “I don’t!”

“It clogs my pores! And my clothes smell like hippie clothes!” Caroline tosses her blonde mane, jutting her chin. Alaric winces. “But if we have normal people as roommates she can’t do magic and I can’t keep a fridge full of blood. So I forebear.”

Bonnie tenses, curls her hands into claws. “You forebear? _You_ forebear?” Everyone in the room is at risk of aneurysm. Damon shoves something pink, fizzy and alcoholic into Bonnie’s hand and she stews.

It all feels remarkably normal. It occurs to Damon that having a home doesn’t suck. And they may not like him – with the exception of Alaric and the possible exception of Elena, too – but they are his friends.

When the evening draws to a close, Elena wraps her arms around Alaric for a fierce, fierce hug.

“I love you,” she tells his broad chest.

“You too, ’Lena,” Alaric says, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. Still she holds him in place. “Are you alright?”

Damon watches curiously.

“I’m better than alright,” she insists. “And I’ll be home for the summer. And my twenty-first, which is kind of a big deal.”

“Got it in my diary.” He looks a little confused, a little concerned.

“And… you’ll you still be here?”

Alaric frowns. “Of course I will. Are you sure you’re…?”

Elena pulls away. Turns to Damon. “Stefan’s going to get a flat in Richmond, and spend a little more time with me. We’re driving up in the morning to look at a few places. He’ll be back and forth a bit.”

Caroline and Bonnie look tense and unhappy, all forced smiles. Damon suspects there’s been a showdown over this. Stefan looks nervous, but determined.

Damon’s not sure what he is supposed to say. “Nice,” is what he comes up with. “Don’t eat her,” he warns, but with very little gravity. “Or I’ll set Bonnie on you.”

Stefan averts his eyes. “She’s back on vervain. Just to be on the safe side.”

“You’re a beast, Damon,” Elena says. “Be happy for me.”

And why the fuck not? Maybe, maybe, Damon’s about to get what he wants. Why begrudge anyone else?

He grins broadly, falsely, points at the grin. “Happy. For you.” Deadpan. Stefan shakes his head.

Damon and Alaric take their leave.

“What do you think about that?” Damon asks, as they walk in the direction of the loft.

“Good luck to them. And if he eats her, Bonnie will be the least of his problems.” Alaric bumps Damon’s shoulder with his own. The night is warm and still and the walk is short.

Once they arrive at the loft, Damon sets himself the task of getting Alaric naked as quickly as possible; Alaric is pliant and warm and Damon has kisses to spare, still high from Alaric’s quiet declaration less than a week ago. He opens under Alaric’s lips and hands and lots of lube and the rhythm they find is perfect, the light streaming in the window from the streetlamps is silver and Alaric’s eyes are big and dark. Damon relishes the ferocious slap of hard muscle on hard muscle as he and Alaric fuck mercilessly, and he comes hard, incoherent, drinking in the near-violent want in Alaric’s eyes.

When the aftershocks fade, Damon pulls Alaric closer and decides it’s time one of them said something, and it’s going to have to be him.

**

Damon calls Alaric on Saturday afternoon, carefully timing it so Alaric will have finished doing all those dull human things like cleaning the loft and buying groceries.

“The kids have left,” Damon says airily. “So I had this fantastic idea that we could get drunk and fuck in every room in the whole boarding house. Starting with Stefan’s bedroom.”

Alaric laughs. “I’m not having sex in Stefan’s room.”

Damon shrugs. “Hand job. Blow job. Rim job?”

“Fuckin’ pervert,” Alaric says. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

Damon is in the library drinking bourbon when Alaric slips inside. “Hello, you,” he says. “Top me up?” passing Alaric his glass.

“I’d ask what your last slave died of,” Alaric answers, eyebrows cocked, “but I think I can probably guess.”

He tops off Damon’s glass and pours himself one, settling alongside Damon on the couch.

“So,” Damon says.

“So,” Alaric answers.

And it’s time to start the conversation, and Damon can’t. He’s been rehearsing for days. He was going to sound cool.

Gone, all of it gone.

Damon reaches into his pocket. “I have something for you.”

Alaric smiles curiously. “Not even my birthday.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Damon passes Alaric the item he’s been carrying around for days. It seems to radiate warmth, nestled there against his hip. Feels just as improbably warm in his hand.

It is a ring, a lapis lazuli ring. The twin to Damon’s own. Marked with a big capital D.

Alaric looks at it for a long moment.

“Heard you were in the market for one. Am I wrong?” Damon tone is airy, carefree; his expression is dark, determined.

Alaric opens his mouth to speak. Says nothing. Closes it again, studying the ring in his hand.

“When would you have talked to me about this fantastic plan of yours? If I hadn’t brought it up first? It’s generally a good idea to turn before you qualify for a seniors’ discount.”

Alaric laughs. “Yeah,” he agrees.

Damon waits another long beat, then bumps Alaric’s leg with his own. “Spill.”

Alaric admits at last. “This is why all the crazy, lately.”

“I… worked that out. I’m fairly bright. You might have noticed.” Eyebrows just a quarter inch north, half a lip quirked; casual. Except not. Damon feels his pulse quicken.

Alaric slips the ring onto his finger, and Damon’s heart lurches when it fits perfectly; he didn’t think it would. One small blessing of broad knuckles, he supposes. “Where did you get this?”

“I’ve had it since about 1870. Swapped it for a not-insignificant amount of my precious blood. As a backup.”

“That is one big D,” Alaric notes. “Feel like I’m wearing your letterman ring.”

Damon cringes. “It would do for now. We could get you something else, if you wanted.”

Alaric laughs again. “I don’t know. You like me marked as yours,” he says, and Damon reaches for the scar on Alaric’s hip, ghosted rings one over the other, each a perfect replica of Damon’s teeth. Damon’s claim. Because now he knows it fits, he really, _really_ wants Alaric to wear that ring.

“I do, actually.” Damon shifts his weight until he is straddling Alaric’s legs. Stoops to kiss him. “So where are we on this?” He mouths his way across Alaric’s face, pulls gently on his earlobe. “Fifty-fifty? Seventy-thirty? What magic words will tip you over the edge?”

Alaric shakes his head, smiles small. “There’s no line, Damon. I’ve decided. I’m doing this. If you want to, of course,” he adds, out of courtesy, though he knows this is not in question. Alaric’s eyes are bright and clear and direct, when they meet Damon’s. No scrap of doubt.

Damon feels his own heart stutter, in stark contrast to Alaric’s steady beat. “So why haven’t you said anything?”

Alaric leans back against the couch. “I think I’ve been trying to talk myself out of it.”

Damon shakes his head. “Can’t have that,” he says, edging Alaric’s t-shirt up over his broad chest. “You can stop that right the fuck now.” Alaric lets Damon remove his shirt. Leans lazy against the back of the couch. Lets his eyes drift shut as Damon kisses his chest, his neck.

“I can’t believe I’m dumb enough to ask you this. But… Why?”

Alaric smiles fondly, shifting on the couch so that Damon can stretch out on top of him. “Lots of reasons.”

“If you come out with some heroic shit about protecting people…”

Alaric shakes his head as Damon drops a line of wet kisses across his collarbone. “That is so far down the list. But it’s a consideration.” Alaric shrugs. “You know it is. You love to tease me about my martyr complex.”

Damon sneers. “Yeah. Can’t wait for that to be enhanced. You’ll be a joy to live with. So…” Damon pulls his own shirt off, rests partially across Alaric’s body. “What’s at the top of the list?”

Alaric grins. “You know what.” Runs his fingers across the hard, pale planes of Damon’s chest. “This. Us. I’m not getting any younger and you’re not getting any older. Seems like there’s a use-by date on this thing.”

Damon rolls his eyes. “There’s not. Not for you, anyway. I’ll bury you, if I have to. I mean, I’d rather not. And arthritis and Alzheimer’s are not exactly turn-ons. But this?”

Alaric cocks his head to the side. “Trying to talk me out of it?”

Damon shakes his head. “No. Just making sure you’re not going to change your mind in a month and hate me for eternity.” He traces Alaric’s cheekbones with his tongue.

“I promise I won’t change my mind in a month and hate you for eternity.” Alaric sits up a little. “Damon. I’m a history scholar. You’re history. I can be history, too. We can watch the world change while we stay the same.” He leans away. “When it comes down to it… I can’t think of any good reasons not to change.”

From inches away, Damon feels a twinge. Thinks briefly about telling Alaric about the months and years he’ll miss being human, the horrors that await. Imagines, instead, five hundred years, a thousand, with this man in his arms, and dismisses the idea out of hand.

Maybe everything is better, if you’re not alone.

Alaric reaches for his bourbon glass.

“It’s not always fun,” Damon blurts, before he can stop himself.

“Neither’s bein’ human,” Alaric agrees. “Still. I want this.” He drinks deep, offers the glass to Damon.

“So do I,” Damon answers, quiet. Solemn and sure as he sips.

Sex seems appropriate so Alaric bends Damon over on the elegant chaise and pours all he has into him, and it’s good, because it’s always so good, but Damon can’t help but think about what’s coming; no more holding back, no more caution. They’ll tear into each other, they’ll bounce off the walls. They won’t need to sleep but they’ll do it, sometimes. When Damon bites Alaric, Alaric will bite him back, lick away the blood. They’ll fuck across the continent, across the world. They’ll see everything and taste everything and Alaric will be wearing a ring with the letter D on it.


	6. In which their brilliant plan is enacted

Half-dozing on the couch, Alaric notices, at long last, that he’s starving. “I need food,” he says. “And I can’t be bothered cooking. Grill?”

They go, and they eat, and Alaric laughs, and Damon laughs, and other people come by to say hello, but they always go away again. They don’t really want anyone sticking around so this is most definitely for the best.

Now that it’s out in the open, Alaric feels great, unstoppable. Eight feet tall and bullet proof. He fights the urge to hug Liz Forbes and tell her the good news. Still his face and his tone must betray something, because she looks vaguely alarmed. He’s altogether too full of too much good cheer.

“Must have been nice to have Caroline home for a little while.”

Liz nods, slowly, suspiciously. Alaric is not known for peppy banter. “…Yes. Very nice.” She drifts away.

Damon knots his eyebrows in consternation. “You’re acting like you’re on crack, Ric. Settle down.” He doesn’t fool Alaric. Small smile on his face.

Damon behaves as if this is going to happen, sometime soon. Alaric wants it to happen now. He’s done with the thinking. Ready to get on with it.

There’s only one serious moment over dinner. Damon picks bacon off Alaric’s plate, and the gesture makes them both grin; there was a time when this drove Alaric insane.

“You know we’ll still fight, right?” Damon leans back, crosses his arms. “We’ll fight worse.”

“Figures,” says Alaric. “Everything heightened, blah blah. Should mean the making up is better too.”

“Yeah. But… we’ll fight.”

This thing, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t intended. But things happen when they’re going to happen, is what he figures, and as mad as it is, what Alaric and Damon have, they’re equal, in it.

Isobel loved Alaric, once, but she wanted to be a vampire more. Wanted it no matter how alone it might make her. Wanted it to the exclusion of a life with him and changed both of their lives without a second thought. Damon turned to stay with his brother, and for the hope against all common sense that he might see Katherine again.

No matter how he looks at it, Alaric thinks – feels – _knows_ he’s making the decision for the right reason. No urgency, no catastrophe in their midst. Just the thought of a future that could stretch out for centuries, maybe, and one where he’s not alone. And where Damon isn’t either.

“I can cope with the fighting,” Alaric promises.

They drink some more, and Alaric laughs, and Damon laughs, and as soon as the food is gone they head back to the boarding house.

**

For novelty’s sake, they collect blankets and cushions from every corner of the house and pile them up by the fireplace. They lounge naked with Moët they drink straight from the bottle and glasses of bourbon they never allow to empty.

“Want to talk logistics?” Damon asks at last, pouring champagne over Alaric’s chest (to which Alaric responds with a string of curses, because it is fucking cold) and licking it away again (which makes him moan, and pull Damon closer).

“I think I know how it works,” Alaric answers. “Lots of biting, lots of drinking. I wake up in your arms, which is where I plan to die, and then we get on with our eternal lives.”

Damon laughs, sitting up. “You’re hilarious. My god. Corny as fuck. Declarations of love and planning to die in my arms. Seriously, Ric.”

Alaric grins. “I was just thinking that. But. You’re no better, so I don’t really care.” He tangles his fingers with Damon’s.

Damon agrees. “Granted.” He leans his forehead against Alaric’s chest. “I just… I don’t know. Since you’ve got the chance to actually plan this, instead of waiting around to get gut-shot by your own father, we might as well make it memorable. Don’t you think?”

“It’s all been memorable,” Alaric admits. “And this? This we’ll remember.”

Damon nudges Alaric’s mouth open with his own. “How do you want to do this? When? Where?” He reaches for Alaric’s half-erect cock, and it immediately stands to attention. “We could rent a villa in Tuscany. Or go out to the Falls.”

“Right here,” Alaric says. Eyes wide, though the rhythm of Damon’s hand on his cock, the familiar tug, is making it hard to focus. “This is where it should happen. You killed me right here in front of the fire, the first time. Seems like a good spot for you to kill me one final time.”

“We have done an awful lot of fucking here,” Damon says airily. “Seems appropriate. You’ve thought about this.” Solemn, now. “A lot.” The pressure and the pace increase until Alaric closes his eyes and bites at his lip.

Alaric nods. “Yeah.” Straining, now, close to release. “Fuck, Damon. Just.”

Damon speeds up, just a little, rough and determined and as Alaric shoots, Damon bites into Alaric’s hip, making his whole body roll. Not hard, just a taste, like it’s a normal night.

“I suppose I’ll miss that,” Alaric says, when he can speak again.

“Not as much as I will,” Damon grumbles. “Vampire blood isn’t exactly rich in nutrition. Not to vampires, anyway. Whatever, I’ll cope. By the way… just to be perfectly clear, if you think you’re going to skate by on the bunny diet, you can forget it. I don’t need another Stefan on my hands.” He says this licking come off Alaric’s chest while Alaric tangles his fingers through Damon’s hair.

Alaric grins. “I know. But I won’t kill, not if I can help it.”

“You don’t have to. Although it is, on occasion, hilarious. And fun.” Damon snickers.

“Fuck off,” Alaric says, but with no real malice in his tone.

After a long beat, all soft touches and hard kisses, Damon speaks again. “Any last requests? Anything you want to do one last time human? Eat a pound of caviar? A whole tub of that awful ice cream you like so much?”

“I hate caviar. And chunky monkey will still be here when I get back. Everything’s intensified, right?” Alaric puts one hand behind his head, resting against the heavy pile of cushions and blankets.

Damon’s eyes dilate, until there is barely a trace of their beautiful spun silver colour visible around the edges. “Everything,” he says, covering Alaric’s body with his own. “Everything. You won’t believe it.” Damon continues to trace the dips and planes of Alaric’s body with his tongue, with elegant hands, with fingers that splay slightly until tapering at the tip. Alaric lets him, knows Damon wants to spoil him. Lies back and relishes every sensation.

“How do you want to die?”

It seems an odd question, but on a night like this, Alaric supposes all questions are odd. “Thought it would be obvious,” he admits. “It’ll be your last drink, so you should make it a big one. I want you to drain me, Damon.”

Damon nods, a little manic. “Yum,” he says, trying to sound casual, though he doesn’t. “You’re good at this planning stuff.” Rolls them so Alaric is on top of him again, warm and hard, arms framing Damon’s face. “I guess all that’s left to decide is… when?”

“Can’t think of a single reason to get any older than I am right now.”

Damon grins, and it’s a laughing, boyish grin. “It’s amazing, how in tune we are on this. ‘Now’ is a solid plan. An awesome plan.”

“I’ll fight,” Alaric admits. “Not at first. But we’re not designed to let ourselves die. My brain’ll go foggy, and I’ll fight. Hold me down. It’s not me changing my mind. It’s my reptilian brain asserting itself.”

“Want a safe word?”

Alaric grins. “I have a few favourites. ‘More’. ‘Fuck’. ‘Yes’. ‘Harder’.” He’s a little more smiling than suits the situation but it feels more like a birthday than a funeral, so whatever.

“Now?”

Alaric smiles again, and nods. Damon bites into his own lip, and Alaric leans to suck on it. The wound closes too quickly, but Alaric drinks while he can. The next bite, to Damon’s wrist, is more effective, and Alaric doesn’t need much, not in a time frame like this, but he drinks hard anyway, feels fireworks go off in his brain.

Damon spends long moments sweeping his hands over the planes of Alaric’s body, while Alaric rides the fireworks. This, he’ll miss as well, though he knows the compensations will be more than adequate. He pulls Damon’s face towards his own, kissing hungrily, all hungry tongues and for a moment, a sharp tooth, detectable for just a second.

Damon rolls again, so Alaric is on his back, settled against the cushions. Damon lubricates his fingers, takes his time preparing Alaric. Last time human, last time with dulled human senses which still seem to Alaric to be spectacularly alive and brilliant.

Damon’s eyes never leave Alaric’s.

Two fingers, three. With a moan, Alaric pushes back against Damon’s hand, reaching for his neck, pulling him down for a kiss.

Four fingers, which isn’t really necessary, but Alaric can tell from Damon’s eyes that he’s about to be fucked incoherent.

With one thrust, careful but not very careful, Damon is buried to the hilt. Alaric groans, eyes narrowing against the brief flare of pain, clamping his muscles down hard and Damon stills. Eyes holding Alaric’s when they open again. After a pause, Damon leans until he can speak almost directly into Alaric’s mouth.

“Are you sure about this?”

The thought of dying, of changing, with Damon buried in him, makes him that much more sure. He resists the overwhelming urge to tease Damon’s tentativeness. Knows it would spoil the moment.

Alaric smiles. “Yes. My choice.”

Alaric carefully slips the Gilbert ring from his hand, and sets it aside. Damon watches, eyes wide and cool and curious.

Damon begins to move, the rhythm gentle, but urgent, and then less gentle; Damon lifts Alaric’s hips off the floor, just slightly, and Alaric feels a moment of alarm when the smile on Damon’s face turns predatory.

 _Our face_ , he reminds himself. _I’ll be a predator in a couple of hours too_. He wraps his legs hard around Damon’s hips, pulling him deeper. As Damon’s eyes take on a dark red tint, as the capillaries in his face engorge and blacken, as Alaric hears Damon’s jaw shift, Alaric tilts his head to expose his throat. As Damon comes, hard, groaning with the relief of it, he sinks his fangs into the juncture of Alaric’s neck and shoulder.

It fucking hurts.

Alaric tries to recoil, but he can’t.

Damon has been biting Alaric for years; gently, delicately sinking fangs into Alaric’s hip or sometimes his lower lip. Even if he needs to feed he never feeds hard.

He’s feeding hard now. Tearing into the flesh. Alaric feels a pressure followed by a searing agony and knows Damon has pierced his carotid artery. Damon makes an indescribable noise deep in his throat, and something primal in Alaric’s mind responds with fear.

He starts to scream, or maybe it’s not that loud. Whatever the sound, he makes it with everything he can muster.

He can’t muster much.

It’s after this that the fogginess sets in, and Alaric starts to forget what is happening. Really starts to struggle. At the height of his human strength, Alaric couldn’t hope to fight Damon off. Weakening, he has no chance. It’s like pushing against a wall, like fighting the ground beneath your feet.

Damon dislodges himself from Alaric’s neck, holds the wound closed a moment, though it pumps still; leans up close to Alaric’s ear. “Don’t fight me,” he says. “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” Alaric understands, sort of, and perhaps he goes a little more limp in Damon’s arms, or perhaps that’s just the blood loss.

Unwilling to waste more blood than he has to, Damon returns to his meal.

While Alaric still has enough sense to notice anything at all, he notices his head aches, dully; that his fingers and toes tingle, that his limbs feel heavier than they ever have before.

He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in.

He doesn’t know why everything hurts so badly.

He can’t remember his own name.

A tear pours from the corner of each eye as both flutter shut.

Alaric is unconscious for nearly a minute before he dies.

**

Alaric wakes as he’s done so, so many times before, scrabbling for breath and with an odd sensation of loss. This time, though, he’s scrabbling for breath he doesn’t actually need. Damon’s arms tighten around him, and he relaxes again, and the loss becomes a gain.

“How do you feel?” Damon whispers.

Alaric tangles his fingers in Damon’s. “Uh,” he says, like a fucking caveman.

Alaric struggles to open his eyes, grateful for Damon’s arms around him, grounding him. The first thing he notices is the light in the room.

“Fuck,” he says. “It’s so bright.”

“You’ll adjust,” Damon assures him. “And?”

“Loud. I can hear… too much. Is the house trying to fall down?”

Damon chuckles. “No. That’s the sound of the house trying _not_ to fall down.”

They are silent a while, and Alaric starts to adjust; starts to filter out the background noise. One by one the sounds fall away; the creaking in the walls, the logs in the fire, cinders crackling.

He can still hear Damon’s heart.

“Your heart’s racing. Why is your heart racing?”

Lying with his back against Damon’s chest, Alaric feels the shrug. “You being dead stresses me out.”

“How long…”

“Not the longest you’ve ever been dead. Just the longest you’ve ever been dead without your magic ring.”

Alaric tries to pull himself up into a sitting position, but Damon holds him in place. “No. It’s more than that,” Alaric says. Already he is noticing how much more information his senses are feeding him. Damon’s mood, relieved and tentative.

“I had to hold you down, in the end, like you said I would,” Damon admits. “I didn’t like it.” Rubs a kiss into the top of Alaric’s hair.

Alaric tenses. “Really?” He sits up, and this, time, Damon lets him. “I can’t remember.”

“Well…” Damon grins. “It was like holding down a kitten. No, forget that. That would be harder. Kittens have claws.”

Alaric rubs a hand over his jaw, across his gums. “We’re not done, yet, Damon,” he says, as he turns.

Damon holds his eyes a long time. “No. We’re not.”

He reaches for a glass of blood, warm by virtue of having been kept close to the fire for a while. Passes it to Alaric.

Alaric pauses a moment, longer than he can stand. He’s already decided every first has to be savoured; first blood, first kiss, first time he and Damon fuck like the unholy creatures they are. He closes his eyes and smells the blood, feels the craving ache in his gums.

“Ric.”

Damon looks amused, impatient. Alaric smiles, first sipping and savouring and then drinking the glass dry.

“It’s… sweet,” he says. Surprised. “And spicy.”

Damon smiles wide. No scrap of snark or sarcasm. Hunger, relief. Something else. He looks happier than Alaric has ever seen him.

And with that, the transition is finished. The electricity running across Alaric’s nerves is intensified. The smells in the room sharpen and become distinct, separate. Alaric squints again. Where he lies against Damon he feels warm, warmer, though Damon always seems a little cool; he supposes he must run a little cool himself, now.

As the blood begins to nourish Alaric’s dying body, he feels a wave of something pure go through himself; something unexpected and inexplicable, and even as he feels the capillaries in his face engorge, as he feels his fangs settle into place, he wonders; _how can this possibly be wrong_?

He launches himself bodily at Damon, nothing held back, and as they kiss, for the first time, as they fuck, for the first time, mere moments later, as he bites down hard on Damon’s neck, as Damon bites into his shoulder, and he can’t help but think that nothing, nothing about this can really be really wrong.

It’s all too fucking perfect.


	7. In which Alaric gets the hang of it

It’s a festival or a party or something, something about celebrating the wonders of Mystic Falls and all the inhabitants thereof, or some similar shit. Altogether too easy to find someone tucked away just out of sight.

“Settle a debate for us,” Damon says. Points to himself, points to Alaric. “Who’s hotter? We just can’t seem to agree.”

The girl laughs, looking from face to face; can’t believe her luck, a pair of guys this good looking competing for her attention. “I’m sorry,” she says to Alaric, “but I’m a sucker for eyes like that.” Blushing as she goes. She’s pretty, Damon supposes, though he doesn’t care either way.

Blood is blood.

Damon twitches his chin with something like victory in his eyes and Alaric takes a step forward. “Look at me,” he says, and the girl’s eyes go wide and blank.

“I did it.” Alaric looks shocked. Damon rolls his eyes.

“You’re a vampire, Ric. The superpowers are part of the package. Tell her to stay calm.”

The girl is starting to shake her head, but Alaric takes her chin. “Stay calm. You’re safe.”

The girl nods her dreamy agreement. Sways a little, blinks like she’s been roofied (she has, sort of). “I’m safe,” she repeats.

“Fuck, Damon. What do I do now?” Alaric looks mystified.

“You take your testicles out of the jar in your purse, and you put them on.”

“Fuck you.”

“Later.” Damon smirks. “You’re learning an important lesson here. Ask her for her wrist.”

Alaric chances a glimpse at him. “Why not her throat?”

“For one, mess. Also, you’re a baby. Babies lose control. If you lose control you can kill her in a few seconds. Through the wrist the flow is weaker because it’s further from the heart.” Damon shakes his head. “Have you learned nothing from me?”

“Apparently,” Alaric muses, noticing the girl is starting to look concerned. “Be calm. Give me your wrist.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Alaric pulls her sleeve up. Damon drinks in Alaric’s features, eyes blackening, capillaries engorging. “Ric. Stay focused. Remember, you actually _like_ humans.”

Alaric always looks a little punch-drunk, feeding. Damon watches like a hawk. Mostly because it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen but also, to keep Alaric's meal tickets safe.

“Humans donate about a pint when they donate… the traditional way. That’s enough for you for a couple of days, and she’ll be fine.” Damon watches as Alaric sinks his teeth into the girl’s wrist, the look of shock on her face, giving way to that calm again.

Watching Alaric’s expression when he feeds makes Damon want to fuck him. Fortunately, this is encouraged. And athletic and gymnastic and so much fun Damon has installed Alaric permanently at the boarding house. Alaric seems pleased by the arrangement. It’s all so grown up.

Blood bags, they’ve agreed on, but it’s not always practical and better this weird mentoring thing than let Alaric go on a bender one day because he’s starving. He’ll stake himself if he ever does it. Throw his ring away and walk into the sunrise. Unacceptable.

“Enough,” Damon says. Sterner, then, hand on Alaric’s shoulder. Ready to tear him off if he has to. “Ric. Enough.”

Reluctantly, Alaric licks away the smears before holding the wound shut. The girl looks confused, but not upset. Alaric passes his thumb over the tip of one fang, just drawing a spot of blood. He presses it gently into her mouth, says “suck it. Oh god, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.” He cringes, and Damon snickers and the girl sucks, a little, until Alaric pulls his thumb away. “Doesn’t seem hygienic,” he muses, but Damon doesn’t dignify the statement with a response.

 Carefully, Alaric releases the wrist, watches the skin knit shut. Magic.

“In the end, we all agreed that I am definitely the hottest. He agreed too.” Alaric points his thumb at Damon, earning another eye roll. They need to switch up the facial expressions, Damon sometimes thinks, but an eye roll is just so satisfying. Alaric speaks again. “We flirted a little and then you left. Go get a milkshake and a burger and rest up.”

“Milkshake,” the girl agrees. “Strawberry. I like strawberry.”

“Me too,” Alaric says, and it’s over. The girl stumbles, and Alaric reaches a hand out to prop her up. “You alright? When was the last time you ate?”

“Too long,” the girl says. “Think I’ll go get a burger. And a milkshake,” she says, looking pleased, “haven’t had one in years.”

“Strawberry,” Alaric suggests.

“Yeah,” the girl agrees. “Strawberry. Bye,” she adds absently as she walks away.

“Really not that big a deal,” Alaric says. “I’ve sort of been a dick about it, haven’t I?”

“You’re a dick about everything,” Damon says cheerfully. “I’ve come to accept it.”

 _It will always be like this_ , Damon thinks, as he kisses Alaric hard, tasting the blood still in his mouth; _we’ll stay the same while the world changes_.

 


End file.
